‘I do,’ she says. ‘Of course I do. It’s just odd, isn’t it? You make plans, get things sorted out in your head, and then wham! Between one minute and the next everything changes.’
‘But that’s the stuff of life,’ he tells her. ‘Stops us settling comfortably into ruts, stiffening into old age. The unexpected keeps us on our toes, ready for anything.’
She looks at him, half smiling then – unexpectedly – she puts her arms round him, hugging him tightly.
‘You are a blessing, Claude,’ she says, and she goes downstairs. He hears voices calling and he knows that Charlie is here and that the party can begin. This will be the real Christmas for them. Of course, on Christmas Eve there will be Midnight Mass at St Saviour’s and on Christmas morning they will have Buck’s Fizz while they open presents and then they’ll eat a long and delicious and probably a very late lunch and watch the Queen. But this is the real Christmas; these few special days with Charlie.
He checks the room: the fire is lit and there are sprays of holly fixed around the big ornately framed mirror above it. Meanwhile the tall tree waits in its painted tub, brightly wrapped presents piled on a chair beside it.
Evie comes into the drawing-room carrying a tray. Charlie follows with Ben, gives Claude a hug and then sees the tree.
‘Wow!’ he says. ‘Now that’s some tree. This is just like the old days. Are these the decorations? Benj says that you’ve kept them all these years, Evie, since when we were kids.’
‘Of course we did,’ she says. ‘Remember, we used to have a tree, too. TDF loved his Christmas tree.’
Charlie kneels down by the box that contains the decorations and begins to unpack them.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘I remember these painted glass ones. They’re really old. They used to belong to the aunts. Oh, and look, here are those Victorian bells your mum gave us, Benj. Come on. You need to get the lights up first.’
‘Hang on,’ says Ben. ‘I’ve got to put the carols on. Here we go.’
He presses the button on the CD player and the choristers’ pure clear voices fill the room: ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. Ben goes across to join Charlie, picking up the long string of lights and threading them carefully through the branches of the tall tree.
Evie begins to pour the tea, whilst Claude watches her and pushes the mugs around the low table in rotation for Evie to fill.
‘Who made the cake?’ he asks.
‘Not I,’ promises Evie. ‘You can eat it quite safely knowing that Mr Marks or Mr Spencer is responsible. Ditto the Christmas pudding for tomorrow. Damn. I’ve forgotten the milk. How silly of me.’
‘I’ll get it,’ says Claude. ‘Don’t worry.’
He’s surprised at how emotional he feels, how lucky to be a part of it all. He’s sad that Jemima isn’t with them but, at the same time, as he and Evie agreed, it’s probably the best thing all round that she’s already gone to her family in Falmouth. She was certainly very cheerful when she came to say goodbye; very upbeat. This was a relief.
They were both anxious about how she and Ben and Charlie would have managed – if there would have been awkwardness and embarrassment – but as far as Claude can tell there is no constraint between the two cousins. They both seem determined to make the day a special one. He pauses in the kitchen so as to pull himself together, sees the jug of milk and carries it upstairs.
When he arrives back in the drawing-room, he stands at the door for a moment looking in. Evie is sitting forward at the low table, cutting the cake, whilst Ben, who is on tiptoe, precariously reaches to place a fragile bauble on one of the higher branches. Charlie kneels at his feet, sorting through the decorations, keeping up a running commentary on the history of each one.
The choir is still singing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’: they’ve reached Claude’s favourite verse.
Where Charity stands watching
And Faith holds wide the door,
The dark night wakes, the glory breaks,
And Christmas comes once more.
Evie glances round, sees him standing there and smiles at him, and Claude closes the door behind him and goes in to join the party.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcia Willett’s early life was devoted to the ballet, but her dreams of becoming a ballerina ended when she grew out of the classical proportions required. She had always loved books, and a family crisis made her take up a new career as a novelist – a decision she has never regretted. She lives in a beautiful and wild part of Devon.
Also by Marcia Willett
FORGOTTEN LAUGHTER
A WEEK IN WINTER
WINNING THROUGH
HOLDING ON
LOOKING FORWARD
SECOND TIME AROUND
STARTING OVER
HATTIE’S MILL
THE COURTYARD
THEA’S PARROT
THOSE WHO SERVE
THE DIPPER
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR
THE BIRDCAGE
THE GOLDEN CUP
ECHOES OF THE DANCE
MEMORIES OF THE STORM
THE WAY WE WERE
THE PRODIGAL WIFE
THE SUMMER HOUSE
THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL
THE SEA GARDEN
POSTCARDS FROM THE PAST
INDIAN SUMMER
For more information on Marcia Willett and her books, see her website at www.marciawillett.co.uk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Marcia Willett 2015
Marcia Willett has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473510715
ISBN 9780593074848
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